


saw you in the wild

by agent_orange



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anal Sex, Animal Death, Cooking, Drinking, Exhibitionism, F/M, M/M, Multi, Slavery, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:07:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5105771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliza pipes up, “Oh, I can imagine how this works, Alexander.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	saw you in the wild

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [And if you need a little sunshine you can borrow some of mine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099213) by [agent_orange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange). 



> TW: An animal is killed for food and there's a mention of slavery.

Slowly, John’s strength returns to him while he stays at the Hamilton’s residence. Secretly, he suspects that he is still unfit for long days atop a horse, though he could sit behind a tree in wait for the British for hours. Nevertheless, he must return to camp. The needs of this war are far more pressing than his own, surpassing his father’s desire that John return and help oversee his plantation. But if he could stay with Hamilton and Eliza indefinitely, there would not be a second thought in his mind about it.

Their house is plenty large and heated well enough throughout with fireplaces, so different from his last quarters that it feels like heaven even without the benefit of his companions. John knows little of Alexander’s origins—the man is tight-lipped about that and nothing else—but John can tell that the furnishings, the finery and warmth in the house come from Eliza. Her influence here (and on Alexander) is unmistakable: the art from her father’s estate hung on the walls, making the house feel like a home; the delicate patterned china displayed in a polished oak cabinet; the embroidered blankets on their bed and tossed haphazardly over chairs. He appreciates the aesthetics of it, especially compared to his father’s overly ornate great house.

And here, General Washington cannot summon them to his tent to assist with his correspondence. What John values most, perhaps, is the uninterrupted time he and Alexander have to write about slavery. John cannot keep pace with Alexander, of course, though he tries. He wears out quills and uses up inkwells trying to accurately describe the horrors done to the Africans. Sometimes he and Alexander compose essays together, firing off rapid responses to the other’s thoughts. Most often, though, Alexander outwrites him and John checks and edits and revises his work before passing it off for Alexander’s input. Alexander does the same, his own pages full of struck-through phrases and notes crammed into the corners. 

Time slips away from him so easily this way, whole afternoons and chunks of the morning's wee hours suddenly gone before John realizes, and his only awareness comes from the chiming of the large clock in the front room, or the candles burning down to their wicks and dripping onto his parchment. The dark circles under Alexander’s eyes grow the more he writes—he seems to battle the passage of time itself as he works.

Unlike Alexander, though, John cannot work constantly, and he finds himself spending just as much time with Eliza as with her husband. He knows Alexander can be careless at times, mislays his attention, so John tries to shield her from that. She does not have the privilege of having been educated as they were, but she is clever. The Hamiltons’ library is extensive, and in between writing, John explains Voltaire and Plato, Locke and Kant. In turn, Eliza teaches him some Dutch words she’s learned through her family, and he teaches her some very basic French. All the better to know if she ever makes it to Europe. If any of them ever do, after the war.

The amount of work Alexander produces is too much for a sane man to edit, and so John brings a sheath of papers to Eliza one afternoon, asks her if she’d like to take a look. She is delighted and uses what he’s taught her so far to begin prodding at the weaknesses in Alexander’s arguments. It will make them stronger (and him huffy).

He comes to know her well, to appreciate her wry humor and easy smile. She is the perfect complement to Hamilton, far less combative and just as social. He confides in her about feeling like a traitor to his cause, given his father’s practices, in a way he cannot confide in Alexander, who would not understand. For Alexander, the world is black and white, and life is full of gray uncertainties.

Sometimes Eliza plays piano for John, singing to herself if the piece has words. His one and only lesson goes so poorly that Eliza calls Alexander down from his study, happily exclaiming that she has discovered at least one thing John can _not_ do.

“You’re human after all,” she says. “Not to worry, though. We shall keep you anyway.”

When they can drag Alexander away from his work—a task made easier by the superior power of two over one—there are so many stories to be told, freed by too much wine and ale. Some nights they play cards around the fire, and there is always sex. John has never been so well taken care of in his life.

Eliza cooks frequently, relishing the fact that she has someone “to eat all this blasted food!” she says. “Alexander seems like he hardly needs it to survive. I nearly have to force him to make sure he does not starve.”

“Stubborn bastard,” John agrees. And he is more than happy to help in the kitchen, though he tells her he’s sure he’s more trouble than he is help. He burns himself lighting a fire and knocks a bowl of diced onion onto the floor, so Eliza sends him outside to slaughter one of the underfed chickens they keep in a pen out back.

“Wash your hands outside,” she instructs, handing him a bucket and soap. “Would you fetch some water, too?”

Outside, the wind is so strong that it draws tears from John’s eyes. He blinks, once, and judges the chickens to find the largest of them. This is not new to him, but he does not relish it. He picks it up and in one movement, snaps its neck. He washes his hands as he’s told, fetches water, and collects the few eggs the chickens laid.

Back inside, Eliza kisses him in thanks. “Do something for me,” she says, and John knows what she may say next. The morning after next, he and Alexander leave for General Washington’s camp. She’s flushing a little—is she sheepish now? After he’s kissed her long and slow, brought her off with his tongue and fingers and done the same to her husband while she watched.

“I want to see you two together. Like how you were before Alexander and I met,” she clarifies.

 _Oh_. He’d thought she wanted him to promise her something: bring Alexander back from war alive, maybe. Or keep him from getting himself into trouble with his mouth. There is no need to discuss this question with Alexander; John knows him so well. He will be thrilled.

“It’s not always…pretty, Eliza,” John warns. He butchers the chicken efficiently, getting it over with. Watches Eliza’s hands rub the bird with butter and herbs before placing it in a pan over the fire. She motions John outside again, and they both scrub their hands before she presses him to the side of the house, and _whoa_.

“Damn ‘ _pretty,_ ’” she practically hisses. Her eyes are so dark, boring into his skull. “I want what’s real. This is real.” Her tone lightens now—she didn’t mean to startle him. She winds her arms around his neck, pulling him close for a kiss. No one is around, John knows, though he tugs her inside quickly. He may tug a bit too hard, since she frowns at him.

“We mustn’t be seen this way,” he reminds her. Not outside, not in public. “If you’re sure about it, dearest. It’s hardly a hardship for me.”

“It will make all of us happy.” Eliza sets him to work making some kind of molasses cake that she claims a child could not ruin.

“We’ll need a good bit of time. Oil, too. And lots of wine will only enhance the experience,” John says.

~*~

The chicken makes for a delicious dinner, along with rice and greens. Alexander is prohibited from discussing his work, or the war, and seems not to notice that he’s being plied with more wine, always, and cake. John’s captivity was worth it, he decides, if it means that he ended up here, at Alexander’s table. His closest friend and his wife taking him in, claiming him, showering him with affection.

By the meal’s end, Alexander is close to drunk. John brews coffee—a too-drunk Alexander turns stubborn and rude; melancholic; or else will fall asleep wherever you set him down—and forces half of it into him. Eliza sets the dishes aside, gathers a few supplies into a basket to bring to the bedroom.

“Come,” he says, ducking underneath him so one of Alexander’s arms hangs over John’s shoulders. He can make it upstairs without help, really, but it’s easier this way. It keeps him from tripping. Into Alexander’s ear: “Your wife had a request.”

“Yes?”

“Us. Together. Like before. She was fairly insistent, actually. I told her I’d rather be captured by the British again than stick my—”

Alexander dissolves into a fit of laughter, which is new.

“Well, glad to know you still take me seriously,” John grumbles. “Think you can handle it?” He gets a sharp set of teeth dug into his shoulder in reply. “So that’s a _yes_.”

He gets a kiss in the bedroom, pushed down and kissed more, Alexander’s hands trying and failing to pull the curls that John’s just started regrowing. He wants this to last forever, so he savors it, pushing his tongue deep into Alexander’s mouth. If he concentrates hard enough, focuses on Alexander’s length rubbing against his own, how smooth the skin of Alexander’s stomach is, maybe the memory will imprint itself into John’s mind.

They struggle to remove their clothes without separating, which is futile, of course. Quickly, he yanks his shirt over his head, unbuttons his pants. Alexander attempts a protest when John does the same for him, and gives up when he struggles too much to undress himself.

The sound of Eliza’s shoes on the floor startle John. She’s already scrubbed her face and taken her braid loose, looking just as beautiful as ever.

“Help me out of this?” she asks, turning her back to him. Her corset is easier to loosen and remove now that he’s practiced. She sheds her own smallclothes quickly—she only had a few glasses of wine, and though her cheeks are pink, she is steady on her feet.

It seems imbalanced to leave a lady naked while John and Alexander are still half-dressed, so he says as much. Eliza smirks, and helps them remedy that.

“How, exactly—” she starts, looking like she cannot exactly find the words she needs.

“Well, there are three of us. You first?” John suggests.

Alexander laughs. “Mmm, I’ll jus’ wait here, pretend I’m not even… Just you see if I haven’t fallen asleep by the time you decide you’re interested in me again.”

Eliza kisses Alexander’s forehead, moving down to his cheek and his mouth. “Patience is a virtue.” She runs two fingers across herself, and John sees the wetness on them before she pushes them into Alexander’s mouth. He sucks before letting them pop free.

“My God,” he whispers, not meant for them to hear, though Eliza does. He touches her and finds she’s so wet already, pulls her down on the bed beside Alexander. He moves slowly, giving her time to adjust (John is modest, hates arrogance, but he knows his own length is longer than Alexander’s, and slightly thicker). He intends to keep from hurting her, but Eliza is insatiable tonight—the wine, perhaps? She positions herself on his thighs, rubbing at herself as she moves faster and faster. He touches her there, too, wanting her to be satisfied.

She squeezes the hand he has by his side, bringing it to her mouth and kissing it. “You’re wonderful,” she manages to say, before she can say nothing at all, breathing in little gasps as she curves back over him, clenching and releasing around him.

“Your turn,” she tells Alexander, face souring a bit when she slides off John. “No, I’m fine. _Sensitive._ John, you did nothing to injure me,” she says.

A sigh of relief, then. “Never let it be said I kept you waiting, Hamilton.”

“How do you want me?”

“On your knees!” Eliza pipes up, making Alexander arch an eyebrow. “Oh, I can imagine how this works, Alexander.”

John has to laugh. “You just so happened to imagine the best view, hm?”

Alexander chuckles, too, quietly filling the room. “First, though…” He rolls onto his back from his stomach, spreading his legs and planting his feet on the bed.

John pours olive oil over his fingers, easing two into Alexander at once. He knows Alexander likes the burn, and he does not want to waste time. Not when it means he gets to watch Alexander and Eliza kiss above him.

The last time he and Alexander did this was years ago; if he remembers correctly, it was shortly before Alexander met Eliza. Alexander’s so much tighter now than before—not as tight as when John first fucked him—but his body remembers, eases up to allow the intrusion. John wiggles his fingers a bit, stretching, and senses how Hamilton freezes.

“Alright?” he asks. Not often, but on certain occasions, they’ve switched places, so John knows the discomfort that comes with this. That memory flashes into his mind. His hesitancy, fear lurking in the corners of his brain. Alexander wearing him down over the course of weeks: making demands for fairness and equality between them; whispering how good he could make John feel; asking _please, Laurens?_ in that plaintive tone of his.

And so, a night: the two of them, plus Lafayatte and Mulligan, and others from their battalion. A tavern, somewhere, celebrating a narrow victory (avoidance of defeat) so minor John cannot recall its name. The two of them, drunk off beer and stumbling, graceless, into one of their quarters. One of them stealing a jar of salve, somehow. Alexander's hands lighting fires under John's skin. John saying _yes, yes, please_ until there was nothing he wanted to say no to, letting Alexander take control of him, Alexander so deep inside of him that John could not even see. The memory feels golden in his mind.

“John?” Eliza asks, and he blinks. Oh. He’d forgotten himself.

“Sorry, I just…a memory,” he explains. That fails to satisfy Eliza, so John has to tell a short version of the story. Alexander turns his cheek into the pillow, half-embarrassed at it, but interrupts a moment in with his own demand.

“More,” Alexander says. “I can take it.”

He does. John tries stretching his fingers again, and sees Eliza scoot down the bed to take Alexander in her mouth.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, sounding not unlike he had in John’s memory. John curls his fingers, knowing how it will make Alexander feel. Just as he predicts, Alexander grabs the sheets, scrabbling for something solid beneath him. So John takes the opportunity to (slow, slow) press another inside, working him open enough for John’s cock. He has to stop more than once, coat his fingers in more olive oil—also, it keeps dripping and staining the sheets, so he’ll buy them more—before he feels like Alexander’s ready.

“Now?” John asks.

“No,” Alexander mumbles, though John suspects he’s lying to keep Eliza’s tongue on him, and John’s fingers pressing just _there_. “Don’t rush me.”

John has had him with not enough lubricant or time before, sometimes just to feel alive and real after a battle. “Now?” he urges. He can feel how ready Alexander is, of course, and he’s been ready practically since his afternoon discussion with Eliza.

“Mmm,” Alexander says. “Feels good now.” The wine colors his words, the way he fumbles to turn over and hoist himself up how Eliza wants. John takes hold of his hips, keeping him in place, and guides himself in. Gradually, trying not to hasten though it’s _so much better than John remembers_. Alexander is so soft, like Eliza, though different.

He looks at her, draped in the sheets, hair messy and damp. She’s smiling, having said nothing about the gross squelching sounds he and Alexander made, or the stained sheets.

“Is it how you pictured it?” The last syllables end sharply when Alexander pushes back, taking John in fully and groaning. He maybe moved too quickly, John knows, but now Alexander has committed and there isn’t any turning back.

Eliza says, “Far better, in fact. I just wish you could see yourselves.”

John’s never been struck with that thought, and now he desires it. To see them all together. He starts moving now, letting Alexander set a comfortable pace, though John knows neither of them can draw this out forever. He’s been hard for what feels like an eternity, and Hamilton is shifting from ‘amorous drunk’ to ‘over-worked and exhausted, near-asleep drunk.’ Luckily, John still has the coordination to wrap a hand around Alexander, gripping tight enough to cut through Alexander’s alcohol-dulled senses.

This is another memory he makes sure to keep: Eliza, lazily touching herself, eyes fixed on them. John, inside Alexander again and so glad, motions stopping as he comes, so sweet he feels his fingers trembling. And Alexander: baring his neck for a kiss as John wears him out completely.

It’s this in his mind when he gives in to sleep several moments later, Eliza’s head by his shoulder and Alexander’s hand on his hip. This time. Them keeping him.


End file.
